Alex and the Gordian Knot
by BritLitChick
Summary: John's young relative visits 221B. Sherlock is forced to reassess his definitions of intelligence and get a little nicer. Rated T for brief coarse language. Author's notes on my profile page for those interested. This story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

"Absolutely, categorically, _no_," Sherlock Holmes growled, his voice lower than John Watson had ever heard it go. "Impossible. _Not_ to be considered, not for a moment," Sherlock said dangerously.

John sighed. "It's not like we have a choice, Sherlock. Harry hasn't regained consciousness. Alex is fine, but needs a place to stay for a few days. I'm the only next of kin."

"Clara, was it?" Holmes said, shortly.

"Moved on, no contact information available," John answered.

"Neighbors."

"They live in Blackpool," John replied. "Too far away to help tonight."

"Friends here, then."

"They don't know anyone else in London. I didn't even know they were in the city. They were here for some kind of evaluation for Alex and weren't planning on visiting me. But, well, I'm listed as Harry's emergency contact."

" 'Evaluation?' " Sherlock pounced on the word. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"The _name_, Sherlock, is Alex. Well, nothing, exactly."

"Hardly reassuring," Sherlock all but snarled. "Try again, John."

"Harry says the diagnosis is on the autism spectrum," John explained. Seeing Sherlock's lip curl, he added, "High-functioning. Not that that should matter, to a compassionate human being."

"Super. Brilliant. A mentally retarded brat running around the flat. Just the thing for maintaining a professional atmosphere for the clients."

"As if you ever cared about "professional", or clients for that matter," John retorted, looking around the untidy room. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, tiredly. "Sherlock, it's just for a day or so. Donovan's coming over with Alex now. Harry's ex – the one before Clara, I mean, her former husband - is flying in from Canada to take over until Harry gets out of hospital. Until then, we'll stay out of your way, I promise. I've set up a cot in my room. And, Sherlock," John began.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, grumpily. "Be kind, hard time because of the accident, only nine years old … I know, don't be myself."

"Please, please, for once," John pleaded. "This has been traumatic enough. I don't want Alex's time afterward at Uncle John's to add to the list of things that must be gotten over in therapy later."

"Fine, then," Sherlock threw up his hands in resignation. Sarcastic, he said, "Next I suppose the precious tot will be calling me Uncle Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2

"Is it a girl or a boy?" Sherlock asked, seeing John enter a few minutes later with a small child. "Girl," he pronounced, before John could answer. John helped the child remove a hooded jacket, and a silky blonde ponytail slipped out. "Shirt placket on the right. And pink socks, lovely. 'Alexandra', then."

" 'It' is a boy, Sherlock," John said, with a warning tone in his voice. "Alexander's clothes got Harry's, ah –" he glanced at Alex, who was looking impassively at Sherlock. "—Harry's blood all over them in the accident, and his bag fell in the river when they pulled the car back from the rail. These belong to Donovan's daughter. It was the best we could do on short notice. And he prefers to wear his hair like this. It's not uncommon in Blackpool these days." Sherlock scowled.

"Alexander," John said, making introductions. "Sherlock Holmes. Private detective."

Alexander looked up, far up, at Sherlock's face. "Top crime solver. He tackled thieves," he said gravely.

Sherlock looked down his nose with thinly veiled contempt. "Actually, I prefer the title '_Consulting_ Detective'," he corrected. "It's on my webpage and John's blog." Alexander didn't answer. "Blog, 'web log'. His main way of collecting female contact information," Sherlock explained. John looked at him sharply.

"Cunts log in," Alexander agreed.

"Alex," John said, reprovingly, but the boy didn't look away from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock regarded him silently. Then he said, "What a repulsive child. Introduction over. Keep it away from me." When John didn't move fast enough, he stalked off himself.

"Him," John called after Sherlock. He sighed. Then he took Alexander to get ready for bed.

Three hours later, Sherlock Holmes suddenly sat straight up in his own bed, a startled look on his face. _Top crime solver. He tackled thieves. Cunts log in. _"Interesting," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

At breakfast next morning, Sherlock watched Alexander with narrowed eyes.

The boy finished washing his hands, then sat down at the table. "Thirteen," Sherlock said. John, working at the stove, glanced over at him. "He's washed his hands thirteen times so far this morning."

John looked at Alex, waiting patiently and silently for his food. "Yes, well, OCD, I told you that."

"Clearly," Sherlock said, distastefully. "Defective."

"Different," John disagreed. "Keep up with your research. It's not always pathological. Sometimes it's a technique, a tool to direct thought patterns, especially for kinesthetic learners. Like your mind palace," he said pointedly.

"Not at all the same thing," Sherlock said, dismissively.

John went on, nodding his head toward Alex, "Go on, Sherlock, say good morning. It won't kill you to practice a little politeness toward our guest."

"He's not said good morning to me," Sherlock said, irritably. He addressed Alex. "You speak only when you're spoken to, is that it?" Alex didn't answer.

"Yes, well, sometimes not even then," John said, placing a plate of food in front of his nephew. "Only when he has something to say. He's not one for chit-chat."

"A quality most people should emulate," Sherlock observed. He looked closely at Alex, getting his attention. The boy looked up from his breakfast. "Do you like words?" Alex nodded, slowly. "What, then," Sherlock said, leaning forward, "is special about the word "stifled"?"

Alexander looked steadily back, not blinking. "It's an anagram of itself."

"What?" said John, as Sherlock leaned back, satisfied. "Exactly," the detective said. "The only one."

"Filets," Alexander said, and went back to his eggs.


	4. Chapter 4

Later, Sherlock came into John's room, where Alex had been instructed to remain to keep out of the way. Alex looked up from the cot, lowering his pencil.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, indicating the small paperback book Alex had been drawing in. "Something from school?"

John, coming in with a small pile of folded clothes, commented, "He's homeschooled, special permission from the local district. Donovan gave him that puzzle book, for something to do. Alex, here are your clothes. Sergeant Donovan washed them for you." He placed them next to the boy.

Alex turned the open book down on the cot, to hold his place. Sherlock automatically noted the title on the cover. _Mazes_.

"What math does your mother teach you?" Sherlock demanded abruptly. "Do you know how to count?" Alex merely nodded.

"Right, then, off you pop, let's hear it," Sherlock said. To John, aside, he said, "Starting with something easy."

"What, are you testing him somehow?" John said, concerned. "Leave him alone, Sherlock. He's been through a lot."

"Shh," Sherlock shushed. John warily sat on the bed, ready to defend Alex from Sherlock if necessary. Sherlock turned back to Alex expectantly.

"Three," Alex said.

"Not a very auspicious beginning," Sherlock observed.

"No, wait," John said. "This is one of his games. Harry told me about it. This should be good," he smiled. "Sherlock, say 'point'."

"Games? 'Point?' " Sherlock asked, "Why?"

"One," Alex said.

"Three point one?" Sherlock said, baffled. Then, his face cleared. "Of course. Four."

"One." "Five." "Nine." "Two." "Six."

The pace of the exchange accelerated, until it was streaming, rapid-fire, back and forth across the small room. "Five." "Three." "Five." "Eight." "Nine." "Seven." "Nine." "Three." "Two." "Three." "Eight." "Four." "Six." Neither showed signs of hesitation, or of slowing.

John lay back on the bed with a sigh. "I can see you two will be awhile."

Some minutes later, Sherlock was looking steadily at Alex. "John," he said, not breaking eye contact. "Get the laptop. There seems to be a difference of opinion."

"Really? At what point?"

"Digit five hundred six. Just get it, please."

John fetched the laptop from the main room and brought up the browser. "You two should make a bet," he suggested as he typed in the search query.

"Your mnemonic algorithm," Sherlock said to Alex.

"I want to play your violin," Alex responded.

"_Can_ you play the violin?" Sherlock asked, surprised. Alex didn't answer.

"Yeah, Harry told me he can," John said.

"My second-best one, once. Not that it matters. Done."


	5. Chapter 5

That evening, Sherlock opened the case with poor grace. He handed the instrument over carefully. Alex took it, handling it expertly. Sherlock relaxed a bit, realizing he had nothing to fear for its safety. He watched Alex tighten the bow, and then begin to tune the violin.

"Flat," he said, smugly, as Alex changed the pitch on the A string. Alex ignored him, working on the others. He lifted the violin. "This should be moderately awful," Sherlock predicted, already wincing in anticipation. Alex played a rapid scale, experimentally, getting a feel for the instrument. "Off," Sherlock exclaimed, triumphantly.

Just as quickly, he deflated. "No," he said quietly, watching Alex as he went on to arpeggios. "On. Exactly –" he reached over to his electronic tuner, switching it on and checking it whenever Alex paused at the top of a run, "—perfectly, precisely, _on_, to within a cent. And he didn't use a reference pitch."

John, from his seat across the room, said, "Are you sure? It sounds a little odd to me, I'm not sure why."

"That's a period instrument, gut strings," Sherlock said. His eyes followed Alex as he walked with the instrument, still playing, and stood to look out of the window as he continued to coax beautiful music from it. "Notoriously difficult to play in England's damp climate. It was Mycroft's."

John looked surprised. Sherlock explained, "Our mother had us each pick an instrument. Independently, we both chose the violin, but Mycroft didn't want to be learning the same thing as his little brother. So, he took on the extra challenge of this violin and its repertoire. He played it diligently for nearly ten years, until he had fairly well mastered it. Then, one day, he put it down, and never picked it up again. I learned later that he'd hated it all along, but he wouldn't let it beat him." Sherlock stopped talking for a moment, to listen.

"That's Beethoven he's playing, Beethoven as the composer intended," he said softly. "A-415, Baroque tuning, nearly a half step flatter than modern concert pitch. And he's even holding the violin in the Baroque style, although it's too big for him, and he knows what he's doing with the unusual bow it takes." John smiled at the wonder in Sherlock's tone. "He's obviously memorized it as the first violinist in the Vienna Philharmonic plays it, but he's adding his own ornaments."

John sat back in his chair, enjoying the look on Sherlock's face. It wasn't often that Sherlock was wrong, and the man wasn't smiling now, but rarely had John seen him so pleased.

"Sherlock," he said, amused, "Are you coming to enjoy Alexander's company?"

Sherlock looked at his friend. "Of course not. Ridiculous."


	6. Chapter 6

Next morning, Sherlock was awakened by the sound of a violin being played in the main room. Annoyed, he got up, pulled on his robe, and strode into the room.

"Once," he said, sternly. "That was the agreement. And that," he exclaimed, noticing, "Is my best violin! Put it down, instantly!"

Alex turned and looked calmly up at him, but did not stop playing. Sherlock advanced a step toward him, menacingly. Alex stepped back, clear blue eyes on Sherlock's, but kept playing without missing a beat. Pausing, Sherlock realized he could hardly snatch the valuable instrument from Alex without damaging it. He pursed his lips, then turned and stalked to his favorite chair. Flopping down in it, he said, annoyed, "Right, then. What composer have you got on your mind this morning?"

Alex paused, considering. Then he began to play another piece. "Guess," he said in his quiet voice. Half-unwillingly, Sherlock began to listen.

The piece was simple, stately, played without extra adornment. It sounded familiar, but Sherlock knew he had never heard it before. He knit his brows, listening and thinking. The melody was odd, modern perhaps. It began to bother him, to _almost_ know what it was. Alex played on, through variations, and finally lowered the violin.

John came in, yawning. "Good morning, Alex, Sherlock," he greeted them. "What was that you were just playing?" he asked the boy. "I'm not sure I liked it, but it was interesting, I'll give you that."

"No, don't answer," Sherlock said to Alex, quickly. "I'm to guess," he told John.

"Guess? You never guess," John teased, heading to the kitchen to start the coffee.


	7. Chapter 7

"When does Alex get picked up?" Sherlock asked John. _This is maddening. How much more time do I have?_

"Um, right before dinner," John said. "He's taking his nap now."

Sherlock frowned. _He's nine. Isn't that a little old for naps? How should I know, anyway, _he answered himself, irritably. He started toward John's room. Noticing, John followed, plucking at Sherlock's sleeve. "Don't wake him up," he said, annoyed but trying to talk quietly. "He just got to sleep."

"He's not sleeping," Sherlock told him, pushing open the door. "I just heard him close his book." He walked into the room. Alex gazed up at him from the cot. His eyes turned to John as he came in, then returned to Sherlock.

"The piece," Sherlock began, but John interrupted him.

"Sorry to disturb you," John said to Alex, with a glare at Sherlock. "You can go back to sleep now."

Alex picked up the _Mazes_ book from the cot, tucked the pencil inside its cover, and handed it to John. Then he carefully moved it through a half-turn in John's hands. He looked at his uncle._ OCD,_ thought Sherlock, condescendingly.

"All right, I'll keep it that way until I put it down," John said. "Are you done with it?"

"Done," Alex confirmed, sleepily. He settled himself again on the cot, and turned over to burrow under the blanket. He was asleep in seconds.

The two men walked back to the main room. John placed the book on the desk, and then sat in his chair to read. Sherlock, curious, went over and picked it up. It was for children, a paperback book with mazes to be traced in pencil. Sherlock flipped through it.

John became aware that Sherlock was standing quite still. He looked up to see his friend standing with the book held absently in his hand. "Anything wrong, Sherlock?" he asked.

"He's done them all," Sherlock said, recovering and turning to John thoughtfully.

"Yes, he said he had," John replied. "What of it? You look surprised."

"He's done them all the same way."

"What? That book has fifty-some pages of only one maze pattern?" John asked, reaching for it. Sherlock passed it over.

"Forty-eight. No. Different mazes. One solution pattern."

John opened the book and examined it. At the top of each page was a small cartoon, a maze's starting place; another small cartoon at the bottom, separated from the first by the maze, represented the goal. Each maze was different, with different cartoons at the starting and ending points, but Alex's solution was always the same. A steady, neat line was drawn from each starting cartoon, across the top of the page, down the side, and over to the ending one at the bottom. Instead of going through the mazes, the pencil lines skirted them. They never crossed any of the printed lines, and they were always perfectly centered in the tiny space between the outside of the maze and the edge of the page.

"Extraordinary. Quite elegant, actually," Sherlock commented. "Alexander, cutting the Gordian Knot."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock struggled to remain focused. Moving anxiously through his mind palace, he was also aware that John was helping Alex on with his coat, getting ready to meet his father down at the café. _I haven't found it yet_, he thought, frustrated. _You can't go._

"We have to," John said. "We're late." Sherlock realized he had spoken aloud.

"Wait, just a moment." Sherlock got up and walked over. He looked down at Alex. "The piece. I …" He shot a quick glance at John. "I give up. What was it? Did you write it?" _You know he didn't. It's too familiar, somehow._

Alex replied, "Yes. No." _That's not an answer_, Sherlock thought.

"Looks like you'll have to say "please"," John said, smiling. Sherlock waited a long moment. Then, he slowly squatted down, balancing on his toes so that his eyes were level with Alex's. He looked at the boy searchingly.

"Please," he said.

Alex gazed back. Then, slowly, eyes locked on Sherlock's, he tipped his head to one side. He tipped further and further, leaning over as far as it was possible to go without falling over. Nearly upside-down, he regarded Sherlock for a long moment, and then straightened.

Sherlock tensed his jaw, uncomprehending. _What was that all about?_ he wondered angrily. _Autism spectrum. Pointless to even ask._ "I'm glad he didn't do that while he was holding my violin," he snapped. Startled, Alex took a step back.

"Sherlock, relax. He's just a kid," John said. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Come on, Alex." He led Alex out of the flat.

Inwardly furious, Sherlock turned and went to stand by the window to regain his composure. _Right, just a kid, _he fumed_. A kid who can do anagrams in seconds. A kid who knows pi to over eight hundred decimal places, not only forwards but also backwards. A kid who memorizes Beethoven._ He pictured Alex, tipping over as he played Sherlock's precious violin. _A kid who –_

"Stop!" he cried suddenly, turning. "Wait!" He ran to the stairwell. John and Alex looked up at him. "Just there, please, wait," he said breathlessly. _The pitch relationships. Of course. That's why it was familiar._ He dashed back to the main room, to the drawers where he kept his sheet music. _The note values. Why didn't I see it before?_ Rapidly, he rummaged through the sheets, intent on finding a particular one. _The phrasing, I was thrown by the phrasing, it's different. Better._ Finally he spotted the one he wanted, and pulled it out. Holding it, he grabbed his violin, bow, and music stand, and carried everything out to the landing. He placed the music on the stand, tightened his bow, checked the violin's tuning, and took a deep breath. He looked down at Alex to be sure he was listening, and then turned to the notes and began to play.

It was the same melody that Alex had played that morning. The boy smiled. John was astonished to see that Sherlock was smiling delightedly back as he played. Sherlock finished the main theme with a flourish, and then made a small, but completely sincere, bow toward Alex.

John said, "You had the music all along," he said. "I thought you knew everything in that drawer by heart."

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. Instead, holding his violin carefully and watching the boy, Sherlock began to lean over. Alex tipped with him, both bending over to the side until they were looking at each other while inverted. Sherlock reached up with his free hand and plucked the music from the stand. In unison, he and Alex slowly straightened. _He almost looks … playful_, John thought, gaping.

"Did Alex write that?" the doctor asked.

"Yes. No," Sherlock replied.

"Is that what it's called?" John asked, confused.

"No." Sherlock turned the music so that John could read the title. _Symphony No. 9 in D minor, Op. 125. Ludwig van Beethoven._

"He was playing the _Ode to Joy_. Upside-down," Sherlock explained, still grinning at Alex. "An incredible idea. It works, but in a completely different way. Fantastic." _He's actually beaming_, John thought.

Shaking himself, John checked his watch. "We've really got to go. " He and Alex started down the stairs again.

"Visit again," Sherlock said, suddenly. John stared up at him, but Sherlock's full attention was on Alex. "Please." Alex gazed back at him. Then, he slowly nodded.

"Alex, say goodbye to Mr. Holmes," John prompted.

"Goodbye, Uncle Sherlock." Alex said. Sherlock stiffened, looking at John. John said, hurriedly, "I didn't teach him that. I didn't even mention the idea."

Sherlock returned his attention to Alex. He seemed to be about to speak, and then to reconsider. "Goodbye, Alexander," he said simply instead. He turned, picked up the music stand, and carried it with him back into the flat.

-END-

* * *

Author's note: Credit to Jean at the website anagramgenius for Alex's first anagram in Chapter 1, to the site's generator for Alex's second.


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